


Distortion

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit, Russia (X-Files), Vignette, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-21
Updated: 2003-09-21
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: What happens after Alex loses his arm.





	Distortion

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Distortion

## Distortion

### by Marcia Elena

Title: Distortion 

Author: Marcia Elena 

Keywords: Krycek fic, with maybe a hint of M/K. 

Spoilers: Set during 'Terma'. 

Rating: R 

Summary: What happens after Alex loses his arm. 

Written for the Cube's 'When Cubes Collide' Challenge, a.k.a. the Canon vs. Fanon Challenge, August 17, 2003. 

Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. 

Author's notes: I know this is a rather cruel story. But what happened to Alex was cruel too. 

`````````````````` 

Distortion   
by Marcia Elena 

No arm, no test. 

That was the assurance the peasants I met in the woods gave me, the words they kept repeating to me while they hacked off my arm. Over and over again, as a means of soothing me, perhaps; consoling me for the loss of my limb. A regrettable event, yet necessary. 

Stupid fucking bastards. 

I'm not entirely aware of the logic that led them to believe they would be left alone if they were missing their left arms. Something to do with the vaccine, most likely. While I wait to be transported to a hospital, I have time to ponder on this, yet my mind is clouded by pain, and I might be missing a vital clue or two. Not that it makes much difference; whatever their conjecture was, it was flawed, and it did not save them. 

Since I've been found and returned to the camp, every one-armed man in the area has been rounded up and brought in. They might, in the end, be unsuitable for Black Oil exposure, for any number of reasons. But there are other tests being conducted here, tests which most of the camp's population is blissfully ignorant of. Knowledge of these tests would be denied by the people involved in them, all details about them classified and compartmentalized so as to allow little chance of discovery. And yet the tests are very much real, and are being carried on even now, deep in the bunkers, where the subjects screams never reach anyone's ears but their own. 

The only requirement one apparently needs to have as a possible candidate for these tests is being alive. I have been told by the camp's Supervisor, as a joke, that the newly arrived prisoners fill that condition quite nicely, despite their disfigurement. 

Funny how I don't feel particularly alive at the moment. 

My conscience -- yes, I have a conscience, even though I know Mulder would fiercely disavow any claims I make to it -- weighs heavily on me on some moments, a difficult thing to bear. Yet the absence that now exists in place of my arm is just as heavy, and constant. It drags at me, allows room for nothing else. 

No pity for myself. 

No clemency for them. 

``````````````````   
The End   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Marcia Elena


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